DragonLance - The Lost Chronicles 02 - Dragons of the Highlord Skies

He paused, gazing thoughtfully into the past. “After my return, if
Tanis had said to me, ‘Sturm, are you now a Knight of Solamnia?’ I
think I would have found the strength to tell him that my candidacy
had been turned down.”

“Unjustly,” Brian said rmly.

Sturm looked startled. He had not expected support from this
quarter.

“Please go on with your explanation,” Brian urged. “Don’t think
I’m asking out of smugness or idle curiosity. I’m trying to sort out
some things for myself.”

Sturm appeared slightly perplexed, but he proceeded. “Tanis did
not ask me that question. He took it for granted I was a knight, and
so did my other friends. Before I could put things right, all hell
broke loose. There was the blue crystal sta and hobgoblins and a
lady to protect. Our lives changed forever in an instant, and when
the time came when I could have told my friends the truth, it was
too late. The truth would have caused complications.

“Then there was my pride.” Sturm’s expression darkened. “I could
not have endured Raistlin’s smug triumph, his snide remarks.”

Sturm sighed deeply. His voice softened and he seemed to be
speaking to himself, as though Brian were not there, “And I wanted
to be a knight so badly. I could not bear to relinquish it. I vowed to
be worthy of it. You must believe that. I vowed I would never do
anything to disgrace the knighthood. I believed that if I lived my life
as a knight, I could somehow make the lie right. I know what I did
was wrong, and I am deeply ashamed. I have ruined forever my
hopes of becoming a knight. I accept this as my punishment. But if
the gods will it, I hope someday to stand before the Council, confess
my sins, and ask their forgiveness.”

“I think you are a better knight than many of us who bear the
title,” said Brian quietly.

Sturm only shook his head and smiled. He started to say
something, but was interrupted by Flint, who thrust his head into

the tent to yell, “That blasted kender! You won’t believe the x he’s
got himself into this time! You better come.”

Sturm excused himself and hurried o to rescue Tas from his
latest predicament. Brian remained in the tent, thinking things over,
and at last he made up his mind. He would do it, though he thought
it likely Derek would never speak to him again.

That night, the Ice Folk held a celebration to honor the gods and
ask their blessing for the attack on Ice Wall Castle. Derek grumbled
that he supposed he would have to attend, since otherwise it would
o end his host, but he added grimly that he wouldn’t stay long.
Aran stated that, for his part, he was looking forward to it; he
enjoyed a good party. Brian was also looking forward to the
celebration, but for a di erent reason.

The chieftent had been cleared of all work, leaving room for
dancing. Several of the elders sat around an enormous drum, and
they beat on it softly as Raggart the Elder related tales of the old
gods he had heard from his father and his father before him.
Sometimes chanting, sometimes singing, the old man even
performed a few dance steps. Raggart the Younger then took over,
relating stories of heroes in past battles to embolden the hearts of
the warriors. When he was nished, Tassleho , sporting a black eye
but otherwise ne, sang a bawdy song about his own true love being
a sailing ship, which completely mysti ed the Ice Folk, though they
applauded politely.

Gilthanas borrowed a whalebone ute and played a song that
seemed to bring with it the scent of spring wild owers borne on
warm, gentle breezes. So evocative was the elf’s playing that the
chieftent, hazy with the smoke of the peat res and the strong odor
of sh, smelled of lilac and new grass.

When the singing and story-telling was done and they had all
eaten and drunk, Raggart the Elder raised his hands for silence. This
took some time, as the children (and the kender) were excited by

the festivities and could not settle down. Eventually, however, a
hush spread through the chieftent. The Ice Folk looked at Raggart
expectantly; they knew what was going to happen. Derek muttered
that he supposed they could leave now, but since neither Aran nor
Brian moved, Derek was bound to stay.

Raggart the Elder reached down to an object wrapped in white fur
that had been lying at his feet. He raised it up reverently in both
hands and held it out in front of him. He said something softly and
his grandson, Raggart the Younger, gently released the leather
thongs that held the fur in place. The fur fell aside. The object
glistened in the light of the re.

The Ice Folk gave a soft sigh and all rose to their feet, as did the
guests, once they understood this was expected of them.

“What is it?” Tassleho asked, standing on tiptoe and craning his
neck. “I can’t see!”

“A battle axe made of ice,” said Sturm, marveling.

“Truly? Ice? Flint, give me a boost!” cried the kender, putting his
hands on Flint’s shoulders, prepared to jump up on him.

“I will do no such thing!” said the outraged dwarf, batting away
Tas’s hands.

Raggart frowned at the disruption. Sturm grabbed hold of Tas and
dragged him around to stand in front, giving the kender a good view
and allowing Sturm to keep rm hold of him, for he could see Tas’s

ngers twitching with longing.

Raggart began to speak. “Long, long ago, when the world was
new-made, our people lived in a land far from here, a land parched
and scorched by the erce young sun. There was no food, no water.
Our people withered in the heat, and many died. At last, the chief
could stand it no more. He begged the gods for help, and one of the
gods, the Fisher God, answered. He knew of a land where sh were
plentiful and fur-bearing animals abounded. He would show our
people the way to that land, for he feared evil beings were trying to
take it over. There was one problem—the land knew summer only
brie y. It was a land of winter, a land of snow and ice.

“The chief and his people were heartily sick of the burning sun,
the sweltering heat and constant hunger. They agreed to move, and
the Fisher God gave them clothes suitable to the cold and taught
them how to survive in the long winter. Then he lifted them in his
hand and brought them to Icereach. The last gift the god gave them
was the knowledge of how to make weapons of ice.

“The frostreavers were blessed by the gods, and even when the
gods turned from us in their righteous anger, those of us who waited
patiently for the gods to return continued to make frostreavers, and
though the gods were gone, their blessing lingered as did our faith
in them.

“On the eve of battle, it is tradition for the cleric who makes the
frostreavers to look into the heart of each person and select the one
who has the skill and courage, wisdom and knowledge to be a great
warrior. To that person, the gods give the gift of a frostreaver.”

The warriors of the Ice Folk formed a line at the side of the
chieftent and Harald, with a gesture, indicated their guests were to
join them.

Flint frowned and shook his head. “Plain steel is good enough for
Reorx and it’s good enough for me,” he said. “No o ense to you or
the Fish God,” he added hastily.

Raggart smiled at the dwarf and nodded. Laurana did not join the
line. She remained standing beside Flint, along with Elistan. Sturm
and Gilthanas took their places in line, Sturm being there mainly to
keep an eye on Tassleho . Brian, Derek and Aran stood at the end.

Raggart, bearing the weapon swathed in white fur, walked along
the line. He walked past the Ice Folk warriors, past Gilthanas and
Sturm, and, to the kender’s vast disappointment, he carried the
glistening weapon past Tassleho , who reached out to touch it.

“Ouch!” Tas snatched back his ngers. “I burned myself on ice!”
he cried happily. “Look, Sturm, the ice burned me! How did that
happen?”

Sturm shushed the kender.

Raggart continued on toward the three knights.

Derek muttered in disgust, “What am I going to do with a weapon
made of ice? I suppose I’ll have to take it. It would insult them,
otherwise. I still hope to persuade their chief to go along with my
plan.”

Raggart walked past Aran, who eyed the weapon curiously and
gave it a toast with his ask. The cleric walked past Brian and
headed toward Derek, only to move past him.

Raggart halted, frowning. He glanced around, and his brow
cleared. He turned from the line of warriors and walked over to
Laurana. With a bow, he held out the frostreaver.

Laurana gasped. “There must be some mistake!”

“I see a tall tower, a blue dragon, and a bright silver lance whose
light is dimmed by great sorrow,” said Raggart. “I see an orb broken
and another orb stained with the blood of evil. I see golden armor
shining like a beacon-light in the forefront of the battle. The gods
have chosen you, lady, to receive their gift.”

Raggart extended the frostreaver. Laurana looked about in
bewilderment, silently asking what to do. Sturm smiled
encouragement and nodded. Gilthanas frowned and shook his head.
Elf women train for battle, as do elf men, but the women do not

ght unless the situation is desperate, and no elf woman would ever
put herself forward as a leader of men!

“Take it, Laurana!” Tassleho called out eagerly. “But be careful.
It burned me. See, look at my ngers!”

“The axe is well-crafted, I’ll say that for it,” said Flint, eying the
weapon critically. “Heft it, lass. See what it feels like.”

Laurana ushed. “I am sorry, Raggart. I am truly honored by this
gift. But I have the strangest feeling. I fear that by taking it, I’m
taking hold of destiny.”

“Perhaps you are,” said Raggart.

“But that isn’t what I want,” Laurana protested.

“We each seek our destiny, child, but in the end, it is destiny that
nds us.”

Laurana still hesitated.

Derek muttered to Brian, “If there was any evidence needed that
the old man is a crackpot, we now have it.”

He spoke in Solamnic and kept his voice low, but Laurana heard,
and she understood. Her lips tightened. Her face set in resolute
lines. She reached out her hand, and, inching a little in
anticipation of the esh-burning, bone-chilling cold, she grasped the
frostreaver and lifted it from its fur bed.

Laurana relaxed. She held the weapon with ease. Strangely, the
ice was no colder than the hilt of a steel sword. She lifted it to the
light, admiring the beauty. The frostreaver was made of crystal-clear
ice, cut and polished so that it was smooth, its lines elegant and
simple.

The weapon appeared quite large and heavy, and her friends
winced a little, expecting to see her drop it or lift it clumsily. To
their astonishment, when Laurana hefted it, the frostreaver was
perfectly suited to her grip.

“It seems to have been made for me,” she said, marveling.

Raggart nodded as if this was nothing out of the ordinary. He
instructed her on the weapon’s use and care, warning her to keep it
out of direct sunlight and away from the heat of the re.

“For,” Raggart said, “although the ice from which we craft these
is blessed by the gods and is unusually thick and dense, the
frostreaver will melt, though not as fast as ordinary ice.”

Laurana thanked him and the Ice Folk, and lastly she thanked the
gods. She swathed the frostreaver in its fur blanket, and, her cheeks
still ushed, she asked in a low voice that the celebration continue.
The drumming started again, when Brian, his heart beating fast,
raised his hand.

“I have something to say.”

The drums fell silent. Aran and Derek stared at him in
astonishment, for they knew how much their friend hated public
speaking. Everyone else regarded him warmly, expectantly.

“I … um …” Brian had to stop a moment to clear his throat and
then he continued, speaking rapidly to get this ordeal over. “There
is one among us whom I have come to know well on this journey. I
have been witness to his courage. I have come to admire his
honesty. He is the embodiment of honor. Therefore”—Brian drew in
a deep breath, knowing well the reaction he was going to get—“I
hereby take Sturm Brightblade, son of Angri Brightblade, as my
squire.”

Brian’s cheeks burned. The blood pounded in his ears. He was
dimly aware of polite applause from the Ice Folk, who had no idea
what this meant. Finally, he dared to raise his head. Sturm had gone
quite pale. Laurana, seated next to him, was applauding warmly.
Gilthanas played a martial ourish on the ute. Elistan said
something to Sturm and pressed his hand. The color returned to
Sturm’s face. His eyes shimmered in the relight.

“Are you certain about this, my lord?” Sturm asked in a low
undertone. He cast a sidelong, meaningful glance at Derek, whose
face was dark, su used with anger.

“I am,” Brian said, and he reached out to clasp Sturm’s hand.
“You realize what this does for you?”

Sturm nodded and said brokenly, “I do, my lord. I cannot tell you
how much this means …” He bowed deeply. “I am honored by your
regard, my lord. I will not fail you.”

Overcome with emotion, Sturm could say no more. Flint came
over to congratulate him, as did Tassleho .

Laurana leaned over to ask Brian, “I heard you say this will do
something for him. What will it do? Isn’t Sturm too old to be a
squire? I thought squires were young lads who acted as servants to a
knight.”

“Generally they are, though there are no age restrictions. Some
men remain squires all their lives, content in that position. By

making him my squire, Sturm may now apply to take his knightly
trials, something he could not have done otherwise.”

“Why is that?”

“Because I have named Sturm my squire, the transgressions he
committed which would have barred him from the knighthood are
now expunged.”

A small frown line creased Laurana’s smooth forehead. “What
transgression could Sturm have possibly committed?”

Brian hesitated, unwilling to say.

“I know he lied about being a knight,” Laurana said. “Sturm told
me. Is that what you mean?”

Brian nodded, then looked up as a blast of frigid wind blew
through the chieftent, causing the res to waver. Derek had stalked
out.

Laurana’s troubled gaze followed him. “You mean Derek would
have used that to block Sturm’s application?”

“Oh, yes,” said Brian, nodding emphatically. “By making Sturm
my squire, I’m telling the Council that I have decided his error in
judgment should be forgiven and forgotten. Derek won’t even be
able to bring up the fact that Sturm lied about being a knight.”

Sturm was patiently answering Tassleho ’s questions, promising
him that if he ever rode in a tourney, Tas could be the one to carry
his shield, an honor that left the kender aglow with pleasure.

“I do not think Sturm lied,” said Laurana softly.

“As it happens, neither do I,” said Brian.

Aran walked over to shake Sturm’s hand and extend his
congratulations, then went to Brian.

“Derek wants to see you outside,” he said in Brian’s ear.

“Is he very angry?” Brian asked.

“I gure he’s out there gnawing the edge o his sword blade,”
Aran said cheerfully. He clapped Brian on the shoulder. “Don’t
worry. You did right. I’ll say as much over your grave.”

“Thanks,” Brian muttered.

The dancing started. The elders began beating out a lively rhythm
on the drums and chanting. Young and old took the oor, forming a
circle, joining arms, dipping and bobbing and weaving. They drew
Laurana in, and even persuaded Flint, who kept falling over his own
feet and tripping up the line, much to everyone’s mirth. Brian,
sighing, headed for the tent opening.

Sturm stopped him. “I fear this will cause trouble between you
and Derek.”

“I fear you’re right,” said Brian with a wry smile.

“Then don’t go through with it,” said Sturm earnestly. “It is not
worth it—”

“I think it is. The knighthood needs men like you, Sturm,” Brian
said. “Maybe more than it needs men like us.”

Sturm started again to protest. Brian unbuckled his sword belt and
handed it to him. “Here, Squire. Have that weapon cleaned and
polished by morning when we ride to battle.”

Sturm hesitated, then he accepted the sword with a grateful smile.
“I will, my lord,” he said, bowing.

Brian walked into the icy wind blowing o the glacier. He saw
pale shapes slinking outside the ring of tents—wolves, watching
them. He wondered if Raggart was right, if the wolves were spies.
They certainly seemed intent upon them. He shivered in the cold,
and found more cold awaiting him—cold fury.

“You did that deliberately to discredit me!” Derek said accusingly.
“You did it to destroy my credibility and make me look the fool!”

Brian was astonished. Whatever else he had expected, it wasn’t
this. “I don’t believe it! You think I made Sturm my squire just to
get back at you?”

“Of course,” Derek returned. “Why else would you do it?
Brightblade is a liar, quite possibly a bastard. Ye gods, you might as
well have made the kender your squire! Or perhaps you’re saving
that for tomorrow night!” he snapped viciously.

Brian stared at Derek in amazement too great for words.

“I want both you and Aran in our tent before moon rise,” Derek
continued. “You will need your rest for the morrow. And tell
Brightblade he is to report to me then as well. As a squire, he now
falls under my jurisdiction. He will obey my orders. No more siding
with the elves against me. Mark my words—the rst time
Brightblade disobeys me will be the last.”

Derek turned and walked o toward the tent the knights shared,
his boots crunching on the ice, his sword clanking at his side.

Brian, sighing deeply, went back to the warmth and merriment of
the chieftent. He saw, out of the corner of his eye, the wolves
slinking and sidling about the outskirts of the camp.

12

Feal-Thas sets a trap.

Derek dreams of dragons.

pon his return to Ice Wall Castle from Neraka, Feal-Thas sent
for the leader of the draconians to ask if any strangers had
been seen in the vicinity. The draconians reported that a group
of outsiders, including three Solamnic knights, had attacked two
draconian guards. The knights and the rest of their companions
were skulking about the camp of the Ice Folk. Feal-Thas had no
doubt these were the knights sent by Kitiara, part of Ariakas’s
scheme to plant the dragon orb among the Solamnics.

Ariakas had explained his plan to Feal-Thas when he’d been in
Neraka. The emperor had used the analogy of besieging armies
throwing the carcasses of plague-ridden animals over the walls into
the enemy city so the disease could infect the defenders. Ariakas
was applying the same principle here, except that the dragon orb
would take the place of a plague-ridden cow. The knights would
carry the dragon orb into Solamnia and there fall under its sway, as
had the wretched King Lorac of Silvanesti.

Feal-Thas had agreed to go along with the scheme. He could do
nothing else. Ariakas wore the Crown of Power. Takhisis loved him,
while the Queen and Feal-Thas were barely on speaking terms. Feal-
Thas took comfort in the fact that accidents happened, especially to
glory-seeking knights. Ariakas could hardly fault Feal-Thas if this
Solamnic ended up in the dragon’s belly.

There was another problem that Ariakas had not considered,
because Feal-Thas had not told him. The dragon orb had its own
plots and schemes.

For hundreds of years, ever since the dragons had gone to sleep
following the Dark Queen’s defeat at the hands of Huma
Dragonbane, the dragon orbs, made of the essence of dragons, had
waited for their Queen’s return. Finally they heard Takhisis’s voice
call out to them, as it had called out to her other dragons. Now this
orb yearned to be free of its prison and back in the world. Feal-Thas
heard its whispered temptations, but he was wise enough to shut his
ears to them. Others—those who wanted to hear it, wanted to
believe it—would listen.

Having heard the draconian report, Feal-Thas hastened to Sleet’s
lair to make certain the dragon orb was safe. The white dragon had
been ordered to guard the orb, and she would obey that order to the
best of her abilities. Unfortunately, Sleet’s abilities did not ll the
wizard with con dence. The white dragon was not particularly
intelligent, nor was she clever, subtle, or cunning, whereas the
dragon orb was all these and more.

Feal-Thas walked the frozen tunnels beneath the castle. He carried
no light. At his coming, an icy enchantment caused the tunnels to
shimmer with blue-white radiance. He passed the chamber that had
once housed the orb and glanced inside. The traces left by the
Guardian’s victims was still visible—blood covered the oor,
spattered the walls. He paused to regard the gruesome scene. Some
of that blood was Kitiara’s. Feal-Thas had been informed, just as he
was leaving Neraka, that Kitiara had escaped her execution. Feal-
Thas was disappointed, but hardly surprised. She was lucky, that
one, lucky and fearless and smart—a dangerous combination.
Ariakas should have never allowed her to live this long. Feal-Thas
would be doing everyone a favor by getting rid of her.

He just had to nd the way to get around that luck of hers.

Feal-Thas entered the white dragon’s lair. A magical snow,
created by the dragon, drifted down around her. The snow kept her
cool, kept her food—two dead thanoi and a human—from spoiling
until she was at leisure to eat it. Sleet was dozing, but she woke up
fast enough when she smelled elf. Her nostrils twitched. One eye
was a red glittering slit. Her claws dug into the ice oor and her

white lips curled back over her yellow fangs. She did not like Feal-
Thas, and the feeling was mutual.

The whites are the smallest of the Dark Queen’s dragons and the
least intelligent. They are good at killing and not much else. They
obey instructions, but only if they are kept simple.

“What do you want?” Sleet muttered.

Her white scales glittered blue in the wizard-light. Her wings were
folded over her back, her long tail curled around her massive, snow-
covered body. Though small compared to a red dragon, she nearly

lled the vast cavern she had inherited from some other white who
had built it long, long ago, perhaps around Huma’s time. Pallid
sunlight gleamed through the lair’s entrance at the far end,
sparkling on walls coated with snow and hoarfrost from the dragon’s
breath.

“I am here to ascertain that you are comfortable and have all you
require,” said Feal-Thas smoothly.

The dragon snorted, blasting frost from her nose. “You came to
check on your precious dragon orb because you don’t trust me. It’s
safe. See for yourself. Then go bury your head in a glacier.”

The white dragon rested her head in the snow. Her red eyes
watched Feal-Thas.

The orb stood upon an icy pedestal. Its colors static, suspended,
the orb looked dead. As Feal-Thas approached the orb and his
thoughts focused on it, it came to life. The colors began to swirl
around the globe’s interior, making it look like a rainbow-glistening
soap bubble—blue, green, black, red, white—changing and shifting,
merging and separating.

Feal-Thas drew near. As always, his hands itched to touch it. He
longed to try to exert his power over it, take command of it, become
the orb’s master. He knew he could. It would be easy. He was
powerful, the most powerful elf archmage who had ever lived. Once
he had the orb, he would wrest the crown from Ariakas, challenge
Queen Takhisis herself …

“Ha, ha.” Feal-Thas laughed gently. He came to stand before the
dragon orb, his hands clasped tightly in his sleeves. “Nice try. You
might as well give up,” he advised the orb. “I will not relinquish
you. I know the danger you pose. You must try your blandishments
on someone else, such as this Solamnic knight who has come to free
you.”

The colors ashed brie y, swirled furiously, then settled back into
a slow, drifting, seemingly-aimless motion.

“I thought that might interest you. I am certain if you apply
yourself, you can snag him. You are the object of his desire. You
should nd it easy to seize hold of him, lure him to you, as your
sister orb did Lorac.” Feal-Thas paused, then said quietly, grimly,
“As you did me.”

The orb darkened, its colors blending, black with hatred.

“With me you failed,” Feal-Thas continued, shrugging. “You might
well succeed with the knight. You could summon him here, then
send the dragon away on some trumped-up errand. But you don’t
need me to tell you that.” Feal-Thas wagged a nger at the orb.
“You are toying with me, hoping to ensnare me.”

He again clasped his hands and said scornfully, “Spare yourself
the trouble. Your tempting promises haven’t worked in three
hundred years; they won’t work now.”

The colors swirled again, and this time green was uppermost.

“You are suspicious of my motives, as you should be. Of course
it’s a trap. You bring the knight; I will slay him.” Feal-Thas gave
another shrug. “Still, you might succeed. I might fail. Take the
gamble.” He paused, then said quietly, “What choice do you have?”

Feal-Thas turned and walked away. He could see the light of the
orb re ected on the ice walls ashing red, then purple, then going
sullen, greenish black. He did not see, as he left, all the colors
merging together in a riotous display of triumph.

Derek woke again from a dream of dragons. He gasped, breathing
hard, not from fear, but with exultation. He lay awake, staring into
the darkness, reliving the dream, which had been vividly real.

Usually his dreams were gray and black and nonsensical. He
dismissed dreams, considering them wild forays of the slumbering,
undisciplined mind. Derek never thought about his dreams or
bothered to remember them, and he viewed with impatience those
who yammered on about them.

But these dreams were di erent. These dreams were splashed
with color: reds and blues, greens, blacks and shades of white. These
dreams were lled with dragons, enemy dragons, clouding the skies.
The sun shining on their scales made a hideous rainbow. People ed
from them in open-mouthed, screaming terror. Blood, smoke, and

re spilled and billowed and crackled around him. He did not run.
He stood rm, gazing up at the beating wings, the open mouths, the
dripping fangs. He should have been holding his sword, but in its
place he held a crystal orb. He raised up the orb to the heavens and
he cried out a stern command and the dragons, shrieking in rage,
fell from the skies, dying like shooting stars, trailing ame.

Derek was bathed in sweat and he threw o the fur blankets. The
bitter cold felt good to him, slapped him out of the dream, brought
him to conscious awareness.

“The orb,” he said softly, exultantly.

13

The assault on Ice Wall Castle.

ake up, you two,” Derek ordered sharply.

“Huh? What?” Aran sat up, still half-asleep, muddled and
alarmed. “What’s happened? What’s wrong?”

Brian reached for his sword, feeling about for it, since he couldn’t
see in the darkness. Then he remembered—he’d given his weapon to
Sturm. Brian groaned inwardly. A knight without his sword. Derek
would view that as a most serious transgression.

“Be quiet,” said Derek in a low voice. “I’ve been thinking things
over. We’re going to go along with this insane plan of the elf woman
to attack the castle—”

“Derek, it’s the middle of the night,” Aran protested, “and cold as
a goblin’s backside! Tell me in the morning.” He ung himself down
and pulled the furs over his head.

“It is morning, or near enough,” said Derek. “Now pay attention.”

Brian sat up, shivering in the chill. Aran peered at him over the
edge of the blanket.

“So we go along with the plan to attack the castle,” Aran said,
scratching his stubble-covered chin. “Why do we need to talk about
it?”

“Because I know where to nd the dragon orb,” said Derek. “I
know where it is.”

“How do you know?” Brian asked astonished.

“Since you appear to be so enamored of these newfound gods, let
us say they told me,” Derek returned. “How I know is not important.
This is my plan. When the attack starts, we will leave the main

body, sneak into the castle, recover the orb, and—” He halted, half-
turned to stare outside. “Did you hear that?”

“No,” said Brian.

Derek, muttering something about spies, ducked out of the tent.

“The gods told him about the orb!” Aran shook his head in
disbelief and reached for his ask.

“I think he was being sarcastic. This isn’t like Derek,” Brian
added, troubled.

“You’re right. Derek may be a sti -necked, sword-up-the-butt,
arrogant lunkhead, but at least he’s been an honorable, sti -necked,
sword-up-the-butt, arrogant lunkhead. Now he’s lost even that
endearing quality.”

Brian pulled on his thick boots, guring he might as well get up.
The gray light of dawn was seeping into the tent. “Maybe he’s right.
If we sneak into the castle—”

“That’s my point,” interrupted Aran, gesturing with the ask.
“Since when does Derek sneak anywhere? This is the same Derek
who had to turn the Measure upside down to nd a way for us to
enter Tarsis without proclaiming ourselves as knights to all and
sundry. Now he’s sneaking into castles and stealing dragon orbs.”

“The castle of the enemy,” Brian pointed out.

Aran shook his head, unconvinced. “The Derek we once knew
would have walked up to the front of that castle, banged on the
door, and challenged the wizard to come out to do battle. Not very
sensible, admittedly, but that Derek would have never considered
turning sneak thief.”

Before Brian could respond, Derek crawled back inside the tent.
“I’m certain the elf was eavesdropping, though I couldn’t catch him.
It doesn’t matter now. The camp is starting to stir. Brian, go wake
Brightblade. Tell him what we’re doing, and order him to keep this
to himself. He’s not to tell the others, especially the elf. I’m going to
talk to the chief.”

Derek left again.

“Are you going to go along with this crazy scheme of his?” Aran
asked.

“Derek gave us an order,” Brian replied, “and … he’s our friend.”

“A friend who’s going to get us all killed,” Aran muttered.
Buckling on his sword belt and taking a nal pull on the ask, he
stu ed it into his coat and stomped out of the tent.

Brian went to wake Sturm and found the knight already awake. A
thin sliver of light spilled out from underneath the tent.

“Sturm?” he called softly, pushing open the ap.

The light came from a burning wick placed in a dish of oil. Sturm
sat cross-legged on the oor, rubbing the blade of Brian’s sword
with soft, brushed hide.

“Almost nished, my lord,” said Sturm, looking up. The light of
the ame shone in his eyes.

Brian squatted down. “The order to clean my sword was meant to
be a jest.”

“I know,” said Sturm, smiling. His hand with the cloth glided
slowly, carefully, over the sword’s blade. “What you did for me
meant more to me than you can ever know, my lord. This is my
poor way of showing my gratitude.”

Brian was deeply touched. “I need to talk to you,” he said. He
explained Derek’s plan to use the attack as a diversion, slip into the
castle, and steal the orb.

“Derek says he knows where the orb is located,” Brian added.

“How could he?” Sturm asked, frowning.

Brian didn’t want to repeat Derek’s sarcastic gibe about the gods,
and so he evaded the question. “Derek has ordered you to
accompany us.”

Sturm regarded him in troubled silence. The frown line in his
forehead deepened. “Far be it from me to question the orders of a
Lord Knight of the Rose—”

“Oh, go ahead—question!” Brian said wearily. “Aran and I have
been doing nothing else since we came on this mission.” He lowered
his voice. “I’m worried about Derek. He’s become increasingly
obsessed with this dragon orb. Almost consumed by it.”

Sturm looked very grave. “I know something of magic, not by
choice, mind you, but because I was around Raistlin so much—”

“Your friend the Red Robe wizard,” Brian clari ed.

“Not friend, exactly, but, yes, he’s the one I meant. Raistlin
always cautioned us that if ever we came upon any object that
might be magical, we were to leave it alone, have nothing to do
with it. ‘Such artifacts are designed to be used by those who have
studied magic and know and understand its deadly potential. They
pose a danger to the ignorant’.”

Sturm grimaced. “The one time I did not heed Raistlin’s warning,
I paid for it. I put on a magical helm I had found and it seized hold
of me—” Sturm stopped, waved the story aside. “But that’s another
tale. I think if Raistlin were here, he would caution us against this
orb, warn us against coming anywhere near it.”

“You make it sound like the orb has something to do with
changing Derek, but how is that possible?” Brian argued.

“How is it possible for a dwarven helm to steal a man’s soul?”
Sturm asked with a rueful smile. “I don’t know the answer.”

Tossing aside the cloth, he held the blade to the ame, watched
the light are o the gleaming metal. Sturm placed the sword on his
bent arm, knelt on one knee, and o ered it, hilt- rst, to the knight.

“My lord,” he said with profound respect.

Brian accepted the sword and buckled it on beneath his coat. The
belt was not large enough to t over the bulky fur.

Sturm picked up the ancient blade of the Brightblades, his most
valued inheritance from his father. He gestured toward the tent’s
entrance. “After you, my lord.”

“Please, call me Brian,” said Brian. “I keep thinking you’re talking
to Derek.”

It seemed the gods were with Derek and the Ice Folk, at least at
the start, for the day dawned clear, the sun shone bright, and a brisk
wind sprang up, an unusually warm wind for this time of year,
Harald told them. He consulted Raggart the Elder, who said the
gods sent this good weather as a sign they favored the venture. And
because the gods were with them, he was going to go on the raid.

Harald and Raggart the Younger were both shocked. The old man
could scarcely walk on his own. Both attempted to dissuade Raggart
the Elder, but he would not listen. He tottered out to the ice boat
unaided, carrying with him his frostreaver. When Raggart the
Younger tried to assist him, the old man testily ordered his grandson
to quit hovering around him like some damn mother bear.

Laurana brought her own frostreaver. She had planned to bring
along her sword to use in battle. She was honored by the gift of the
axe, but felt uncomfortable using it, since she was not trained in
wielding such a weapon. But her sword was not in her tent. Laurana
searched and searched and eventually realized it was probably
inside Tassleho ’s tent, along with everything else that had gone
missing from the camp during the past few days. She had no time to
go rummaging through the kender’s treasure hoard, so, fearing she
would be late, she grabbed the frostreaver and hastened out into the
morning.

She was gazing into the bright sunshine, thinking her plan might
work after all, when Gilthanas caught up with her.

“Don’t you think you should stay here in camp with the other
women?”

“No,” said Laurana indignantly and kept walking.

Gilthanas fell in beside her. “Laurana, I overheard Derek talking
to his friends this morning—”

Laurana frowned and shook her head.

“It’s a good thing I did,” Gilthanas said defensively. “When the
attack starts, the knights are going to use it as a diversion to enter

the castle after the dragon orb. If Derek goes, I’m going with him.
Just so you know.”

Laurana turned to face her brother. “You want me to stay here
because you plan to take the dragon orb for yourself and you think
I’ll try to stop you.”

“Won’t you?” he demanded, glowering.

“What will you do? Fight the knights? All of them?”

“I have my magic—” Gilthanas said.

Laurana shook her head and walked on. Gilthanas called angrily
after her, but she ignored him. Elistan, walking toward the ice boat,
heard Gilthanas’s shout and saw Laurana’s angry ush.

“I take it your brother does not want you to go,” said Elistan.

“He wants me to stay with the women.”

“Perhaps you should heed his concerns,” Elistan said. “The gods
have blessed us thus far and I have faith they will continue to aid
us, but that doesn’t mean we will not be in danger—”

“He’s not concerned about my safety,” Laurana said. “Derek and
the other knights plan to use the battle as a diversion. They’re going
to sneak into Ice Wall Castle to steal the dragon orb. Gilthanas
intends to go after them, because he wants the dragon orb. He’s
prepared to kill Derek over it or at least he thinks he is, so you see
why I have to go.”

Elistan’s graying eyebrows came together; his blue eyes glinted.
“Does Harald know of this?”

“No.” Laurana’s cheeks burned with shame. “I can’t tell him. I
don’t know what to do. If we tell Harald, it will only cause trouble,
and the gods are smiling on us this day—”

Elistan looked up at the bright sun, the cloudless sky. “It certainly
seems they are.” He regarded her thoughtfully. “I see you carry the
frostreaver.”

“Yes, I didn’t want to. I don’t know how to use it. But I couldn’t
nd my sword. Tassleho must have run o with it, though he

swears he didn’t.” Laurana sighed. “But then, that’s what he always
swears!”

Elistan gave her a keen look, then said, “I think you should go
with your brother and the others.” He smiled and added
enigmatically, “This time, I think Tassleho is telling the truth.”

He walked o to join up with Harald, leaving Laurana to stare
after him, puzzled, wondering what he meant.

The Ice Folk kept their boats hidden in a cove created by a
natural formation of the glacier. The warriors crowded on board, as
many as the ice boats could carry. Those who doubled as sailors
took hold of the ropes, ready for the order to raise the massive sails.
They looked to Harald to give the command. The chief opened his
mouth, but the word died on his lips. He stared uneasily up into the
sky.

“What is it now?” Derek demanded, irritated.

“I feel it,” Sturm said, and he crouched in the shadow of a mast
and yanked Tassleho down beside him.

“The dragon. I think you should take cover, my lord.”

Derek said nothing in reply, but he did duck down, squatting on
the deck, muttering in Solamnic that this was yet another attempt
by Harald to avoid making the assault.

The warriors sought shelter, either attening themselves on the
deck or climbing over the rails to hide on the ice beneath the boat.
Everyone felt a sense of unease. They could hear the wind whistling
through the rigging, but nothing more. Still, no one moved, the
feeling of terror growing on everyone. Even Derek crouched back
farther in the shadows.

The white dragon, Sleet, was suddenly above them, white wings
spread, her scales glittering like snow crystals in the morning sun.
The fear of the dragon squeezed hearts and stopped breathing. Men
cowered on the decks. Weapons fell from limp hands. In the camp,

children wailed and dogs howled in terror. The dragon’s head
dipped. Her red eyes looked toward the camp. Those warriors who
had been able to overcome the terror gripped their weapons and
prepared to defend their families.

Sleet gave a lazy ap of her wings. She snarled and snapped her
teeth at them, but that was all. She ew on, skimming low over the
ice boats.

Those crouching terri ed on the boats watched the dragon’s
massive underbelly pass over the masts. No one dared move or even
draw breath as she ew ponderously above them. Sleet had an odd
habit of using her legs to y, almost as though she were swimming
through the air, so that when her wings swooped downward, her
legs came together, then spread apart as her wings lifted. This
tended to slow her ight and it was some time before she apped
and swam out of sight, ying straight into the sunrise.

No one moved until certain she was gone. Then, the fear lifting
from their hearts, they rose and looked at each other in amazement,
hardly daring to speak what they were now daring to hope.

“The dragon has left the castle!” cried Harald in disbelief. He
stared into the bright sunshine until the tears blurred his vision,
then turned to Raggart the Elder and grabbed the cleric in a bear
hug that, fortunately, was fur-lined or he might have crushed the
old man’s frail bones. “The gods be praised! The dragon has left
Icereach!”

Elistan rose to his feet, his hand still clasping his medallion. He
looked a little dazed and overwhelmed by the gods’ largess. He’d
expected a miracle, but nothing quite this miraculous.

The warriors started to raise a cheer, but Harald feared the
dragon might hear and return, and he shushed them and ordered
them to get on with their business. They raised the sails. The wind
caught hold of the canvas and propelled the ice boats forward,
sending them sliding on their sharp blades across the ice.

Flint had, of course, raised objections to riding in the boat,
claiming that he always fell overboard. The dwarf had been

persuaded by Sturm that the ice boats were not like boats that sailed
upon water; there would be no bobbing and tossing on the waves. If
Flint did fall overboard, which was highly unlikely, there was no
chance he could drown.

“No, I’ll just break my head on the glacier,” Flint grumbled, but
since it was either go on the boat or be left behind, he agreed to go
with them.

Sadly, Flint soon discovered ice boats were far worse than any
other type of transportation he’d ever encountered, including
gri ons. Ice boats could travel over ice far faster than a boat could
sail the water, and they careened across the glacier, sometimes
going so fast the wind lifted them up onto one runner and they
tilted sideways. The Ice Folk grinned and opened their mouths wide
when this happened, swallowing the wind.

Poor Flint huddled in a recessed corner, his arms wrapped tightly
around a rope, his eyes squinched shut in order not to see the
horrendous smash-up he was convinced was coming. Once he
opened one eye, only to see Tassleho clinging to the neck of the

gurehead carved in the shape of a beaked sea monster. The kender
shrieked in delight as tears from the stinging wind whipped o his
cheeks. His topknot apped behind him like a ag. Shuddering,
Flint swore that this was the end. He meant it. No more boats of any
kind. Ever.

Derek paced the deck, or tried to. He kept stumbling sideways and
eventually, realizing this ineptness was impairing his dignity (the
Ice Folk had no di culty standing on the canting deck), he took his
place at the rail alongside Harald. Raggart the Elder and Elistan sat
on barrels, appearing to enjoy the wild ride. Gilthanas kept near
Derek. Sturm stood beside Tassleho , ready to grab the kender
should he lose his grip and go ying. Laurana kept away from the
others, especially Derek, who had not been at all pleased at her
decision to accompany them and had tried his best to send her back
to camp. He had appealed to Harald, but received no support from
the chief. Laurana had been given a frostreaver. She was an

acknowledged warrior and welcome to come. Harald might have
changed his mind had he known her true intent.

Sitting on the deck, the wind blowing in her face, Laurana
considered what she was planning to do and she was appalled at
herself. She trembled at the thought and was not certain she had the
courage to go through with it. Several times, her heart would fail
her and she would decide that when they reached their destination,
she would stay in the boat. No one would fault her. Everyone would
be relieved. Despite the fact that she’d been given the frostreaver,
the warriors were uncomfortable having a woman in their midst.
Derek was angry, and even Sturm cast her worried glances.

Laurana had fought draconians in Pax Tharkas and she had
acquitted herself well. Tanis and the others had praised her skill and
her courage in battle. Though elf women are all trained to ght—a
tradition that dates back to the First Dragon War, when the elves
fought for their very survival—Laurana was not a warrior. But she
could not let Gilthanas end up in a ght with the knights, and she
had the terrible foreboding that this was what it would come to if
no one was there to stop him. She might have once relied upon
Sturm to side with Gilthanas, keep him out of trouble, but Sturm
had other loyalties now. He was bound to obey his lord, and
Laurana would not force him to make a choice between duty and
friendship.

The ice boats sped across the glacier, racing toward the castle.
The warriors crowded the sides, enjoying the wild ride. The plan of
attack was simple. If the gods came to their aid, the warriors would

ght. If not, they would use the swift-sailing boats to carry them
away. The only enemy who could catch them was the dragon, and
she was gone. But they all had faith that the gods, who had already
done so much, would do more.

Victory was assured.

The single tower of Ice Wall Castle, rising high in the air,
appeared to be the only part of the fortress made of stone. The
castle walls were covered in centuries of accumulated ice. The
guards atop the ramparts walked on ice. Stone stairs had long since
disappeared, covered by ice. So many layers of ice coated the walls
that the tops of the watchtowers were now practically on a level
with the ramparts.

As the boats drew nearer, they saw soldiers massing on the icy
battlements. The soldiers were enormous, large and hulking.

“Those are not draconians,” said Derek.

“Thanoi,” said Harald, glowering. “Our ancient enemy. They are
also called walrus-men, for they have the tusks and massive girth of
a walrus and they walk upright, like men. They have no love for
Feal-Thas. They have come just for a chance to kill us. So much for
a surprise assault. The wizard was warned of our coming.”

“The wolves,” said Raggart the Elder knowingly. “They were
prowling about the camp last night. They heard our war-feast and
they told him we were coming.”

Derek rolled his eyes at this, but he kept quiet.

“Yet Feal-Thas sent away the dragon,” Sturm said in puzzled
tones. “That makes no sense.”

“Perhaps it was a ruse,” suggested Raggart the Younger. “Perhaps
the dragon is lurking nearby, ready to attack us.”

“No,” Raggart the Elder returned. He pressed his hand over his
heart. “I do not feel her presence. The dragon is gone.”

“There could be many reasons,” said Derek briskly. “The war
rages on in other parts of Ansalon. Perhaps the dragon was needed
elsewhere. Perhaps this Feal-Thas is overcon dent. He thinks he
does not need her help against us. What it means,” he added in a
low voice to his friends, “is that the dragon orb has been left
unprotected.”

“Except by a thousand walrus-men and a few hundred draconians,
not to mention a dark elf wizard,” Aran grumbled.

“Don’t worry.” Derek stomped his feet on the deck to warm them.
He was in a good humor. “Brightblade’s gods will assist us.”

Sturm did not hear Derek’s sarcastic remark. He was watching the
thanoi crowding the ramparts, brandishing their weapons and
leaning over the walls to shout insults at their foes. The warriors
shouted back, but they seemed daunted. The thanoi clustered thick
on the walls, forming a dark, unbroken line of steel that encircled
the top of the fortress.

“Feal-Thas brings in thousands of troops to guard the castle, yet
he sends away the dragon,” Sturm remarked, shaking his head.

“There are white bears up there,” cried Tassleho . “Like the bear
we saved!” He turned to the chief. “I thought bears were friends of
your people.”

“The thanoi make slaves of the white bears.” Harald told him.
“They goad them and torment them until the bears come to hate
anything that walks on two legs. They will attack on sight.”

“First draconians, then walrus-men, now mad bears. What next?”
grumbled Flint.

“Have faith,” said Elistan, resting his hand on the dwarf’s
shoulder.

“I do,” said Flint stoutly. He patted his axe. “In this. And in
Reorx,” he added quickly in dwarven, fearing that the god, who was
known to be touchy, might take o ense.

The ice boats were sailing within arrow range. At rst the
warriors were not worried. The thanoi, with their thick hands and
claws, were not archers. But then arrows began thunking into the
ice ahead of them, and they realized draconian archers were on the
walls. Two arrows struck the side of the boat, their shafts quivering
in the wood, and Harald ordered the boats to a halt. They lowered
the sails. The boats slowed and slid to a stop.

The warriors stared up at the walls in grim silence. No cheers, no
elation, as there had been when they started. The Ice Folk numbered
about three hundred, and they faced an army of over a thousand.

They were exposed, out in the open. Their enemy was safely
ensconced in a fortress of ice. Derek had not yet admitted defeat,
but even he was daunted.

A large boulder, thrown from the wall, crashed on the ice near the
lead boat. If the boulder had found its mark, it would have smashed
through the bottom of the boat, perhaps snapped the mast, killing
any number of warriors. Other boulders began to rain down on
them, hurled by the strong arms of the thanoi.

Harald turned to Elistan. “We cannot stay here waiting for them
to make a lucky hit. The gods must either aid us, or we must
retreat.”

“I understand,” said Elistan. He looked at Raggart the Elder, who
nodded his head.

“Lower the ladder,” Raggart ordered.

Harald was astonished. “You mean to leave the boat?”

“We do,” said Elistan calmly.

Harald shook his head. “Impossible. I won’t allow it.”

“We must move closer to the castle,” Elistan explained.

“That will take you into arrow range. They would use you for
target practice.” The chief shook his head. “No. Absolutely not.”

“The gods will keep us safe,” declared Raggart. He gave Harald a
shrewd look and added cannily, “You either believe or you don’t
believe, Chieftain. You can’t have it both ways.”

“It is easy to have faith when you are safe and snug in the
chieftent,” Elistan added.

Harald frowned, rubbed his beard and looked from one to the
other. The warriors clustered around them, watching their chief,
waiting to see what he would do. Laurana was assailed by sudden
doubt. This had been her idea, but she never meant for Elistan to
place his life at risk. As he said, it was easy to have faith when you
were snug and safe. She longed to try to dissuade him. As if reading
her thoughts, he glanced over at her and smiled reassuringly.

Laurana smiled back, hoping her smile radiated con dence, hoping
it didn’t look as shaky as it felt.

“Lower the ladder,” Harald said at last, reluctantly, grudgingly.

“I will go with them,” Sturm o ered.

“No you will not,” said Derek. “You will remain with us,
Brightblade,” he added in Solamnic. “If this crazy scheme of theirs
works, which I doubt, I plan to enter the castle and you will be close
by to attend us.”

Sturm didn’t like it, but there was nothing he could do. He was a
squire, pledged to serve the knights.

“You could do nothing to protect us anyway, Sir Knight,” Raggart
the Elder told him, “but I thank you for the thought.”

The cleric of Habakkuk clasped hold of his medallion in one hand
and raised his other hand, calling for silence. The warriors hushed.
Many bowed their heads.

“Gods of Light, we come to you as children who ran away from
home in anger and now, after years of wandering, lost and alone,
we have at last found our way back to your loving care. Be with us
now as we go forth in your name, Fisher God, and in your name,
Father God, to ght the evil trying to claim the world. Be with our
warriors, strengthen their hands, and banish fear from their hearts.
Be with us. Grant us your divine blessing.”

His prayer nished, Raggart walked o . He walked strongly, no
longer tottering, and he shoved away the hand of his grandson. The
old man walked over to a rope ladder hanging from the rail, and,
grasping it with rm hands, climbed down it as nimbly as he had
when he was a lad more than seventy years ago. Elistan followed
more slowly, being unaccustomed to boats and ladders, but at last
both stood safely on the ice.

The enemy crowded the walls, curious to see what was
happening. At the sight of two elders, one clad in long white robes
and the other in blue-gray, walking fearlessly toward them, the
thanoi began to hoot and snort in derision.

“Do you send your old women to ght?” one shouted, and
raucous laughter went up along the walls, followed immediately by
a urry of arrows.

Laurana watched in terror, her heart in her throat. The arrows
landed all around the clerics. One arrow pierced Elistan’s sleeve.
Another stuck in the ice in between Raggart’s feet. The two kept
walking, unafraid, their hands clasping their medallions.

“The archers will nd their aim the next time,” said Derek grimly.
“I knew this was folly. Come, Brightblade, we must go fetch the two
old fools back.”

“No!” Harald stood barring the way. “They went with my
sanction.”

“Then you must answer for the consequences,” said Derek.

Another ight o arrows sped from the walls. These missed their
targets as well. More arrows fell around Elistan and Raggart, none
hit them.

A warrior started to cheer, but his comrades shushed him. They
watched in silence, reverent, awe-struck. The jeering on the walls
had ceased, replaced by a rumble of anger and cries of “shoot
again!”

Elistan and Raggart paid no attention to the jeers or the arrows.
They came to a halt within the shadow of the castle walls. Lifting
their medallions in their hands, they held them high to meet the
rays of the morning sun.

The wind strengthened and shifted, blowing with unusual
warmth, bringing with it a hint of spring. Everyone waited tensely,
not one sure what was going to happen.

“They didn’t say the magic words,” Tas whispered, worried.

Sturm hushed him.

The bright sun struck rst one medallion and then the other. Both
blazed with light. The clerics held the medallions steady and the
light grew in intensity until those watching had to avert their eyes.
Then a single beam of radiant, blazing white light shot from

Elistan’s medallion. The beam, strong and powerful, struck the wall
of Ice Wall Castle. A moment later, another beam of light, this one
blue in color, lanced out from Raggart’s medallion, hitting a
di erent section of wall.

No one moved or spoke. Many gasped in awe. Everyone stared
trans xed, except Derek, who was engrossed in xing a loose buckle
on his sword belt. Sturm started to say something to call his
attention to what was happening.

“Don’t waste your breath,” said Brian quietly. “He won’t look, and
even if he did, he wouldn’t see.”

Elistan’s beam of light burned into the ice on the castle wall, and
the ice shuddered. A sound like thunder splintered the air. The ice
cracked and sheered o the wall, sliding down to the ground with a
dull roaring sound. Where Raggart aimed his beam of holy light,
huge chunks of ice broke apart and slid down the wall.

The two beams shone more brilliantly by the moment as the gods
grabbed hold of the sun and hurled it against the walls of ice. The
thanoi crowding the battlements had ceased their jeering and were
staring down in astonishment. At rst they did not recognize their
danger. But then one, less thick-headed than the others, saw what
was bound to happen if the assault on the icy castle walls continued.

The archers redoubled their e orts. But the arrows continued to
miss their marks, while those that passed inside the beam of holy
light vanished in pu s of smoke. The ice cracked and sloughed o ,
and those watching began to see the stone beneath.

Elistan shifted his beam of light to strike the ice-covered
battlements. Some of the thanoi standing near that blazing light
panicked and tried to ee, only to run into those packed in around
them. The trapped thanoi shoved the others out the way. Their
fellows shoved back. Roars of fear and rage rose into the air and
were drowned by another thunderous crack. The ice on the
battlements shifted and shook, and with no more ice to support it,
the icy battlements cracked and fell with a sound like an avalanche.

The thanoi, hundreds of them, came down with the ice, their
shrieks and bellows terrible to hear. The thanoi standing on the wall
Raggart had under assault tried frantically to escape, but their
battlement gave a shake and a shiver and collapsed. Ice and thanoi
cascaded to the ground.

The cracks in the ice continued to spread outward, like the web of
a demented spider, running around the side of one wall, racing up
over the next. Then it seemed as if the entire castle was collapsing,
its ice walls sliding and slipping, rumbling and falling. Only the
stone tower stood immovable, seeming invulnerable.

Harald gave an exultant roar, and, waving a gigantic frostreaver
over his head, ran toward the side of the boat, bellowing for his men
to follow. He did not bother with the ladder, but vaulted over the
rail. His warriors poured after him. The warriors on the other ice
boats did the same, and soon the entire force was running across the
ice, eager to attack any of the enemy who had managed to survive
the collapse.

Derek ordered the knights to wait until the boat was cleared. He
leaned over the rail, staring at the castle wall intently, then seemed
to nd what he was searching for. He ran for the ladder, ordering
Sturm, Brian and Aran to follow. Tas did not hear his name included
in the order, but he assumed this was simply an oversight. The
kender gleefully vaulted over the railing and was soon running
happily alongside Derek.

The knight, without missing a stride, gave the kender a shove that
sent him ying. Tassleho landed on his belly on the ice, arms and
legs akimbo. He did a couple of spins before he slid to a halt and lay
there, gasping for breath.

Sturm turned to go back to see if Tas was all right. Derek snapped
an order at him. Sturm seemed about to disobey.

“I’ll take care of him!” Laurana shouted, hurrying to Tas’s side.

Sturm looked grim, but he turned to run after the knights.

Gilthanas had been right. Derek was not going to join the ght.
He was angling away from the battle.

Laurana helped Tas to his feet. The kender was unharmed but
extremely indignant.

“Derek said he didn’t need me! After all the help I’ve been to him!
He wouldn’t have known anything about that stupid old orb if it
wasn’t for me. Well, we’ll see about that!”

Before Laurana could catch him, Tas had dashed o .

“I told you so,” said Gilthanas. He took hold of her, detaining her
as she would have gone after Tas.

“I’m not staying behind,” she said de antly.

“I know you’re not,” he said curtly. “I just want to let them get a
head start, so they don’t know we’re following.”

She sighed. Part of her was glad he hadn’t tried to force her to
remain behind and another part desperately wished he had. She felt
the same dread she had felt when the dragon ew overhead, though
she did not know why, for there was no dragon around. She and
Gilthanas caught up with Tassleho , whose short strides were no
match for the long legs of the knights.

“I’m coming with you,” Tas announced, his breath pu ng in the
cold air.

“Good,” said Gilthanas. “You might be useful.”

“I might?” Tas was pleased, but dubious. “I don’t think I’ve ever
been useful before.”

“Where is Derek going?” Laurana wondered, mysti ed.

Derek had been heading for the castle wall, but now he slanted
o , leading his small force around a corner to the back of the castle,
on the very edge of the glacier.

Gilthanas squinted his eyes against the bright light to see, then
pointed to an area close to the ground. “There! He’s found a way
in.”

The ice had broken away from beneath the wall and, like slicing
through the side of honey-comb, the removal of the ice wall laid
bare scores of tunnels beneath the castle.

Derek chose the nearest tunnel and ordered his small force inside.

Gilthanas and Laurana and Tas held back, waiting for the knights
to get far enough ahead so they could safely pursue them. The three
were about to enter when they heard heavy footfalls and a gru
voice calling out loudly, “Wait up!”

Laurana turned to see Flint, slipping and sliding, come running
clumsily over the snow.

“Make haste! We’re going to lose them!” Gilthanas said irritably.
Walking soft-footed, he crept inside the tunnel. “Keep behind me,”
he ordered his sister, “and take care you don’t hurt yourself with
that thing.” He glared at the frostreaver.

“What are you doing here, doorknob?” Flint demanded, glaring at
Tas.

“Gilthanas says I might be useful,” Tas said importantly.

“In a pig’s eye!” Flint snorted.

Doubting herself, feeling she was in the way, Laurana followed.
She had to go. Gilthanas was acting strangely. Derek was acting
strangely. Neither was himself, and it was all because of this dragon
orb.

She began to hope fervently they never found it.

14

The wolf pack. The trap.

Laurana’s destiny.

nside Sleet’s lair, now empty, the white wolf stood near his
master. Though the dragon was gone, her magical snow
continued to fall, drifting down around them in large akes
that landed on the wolf’s fur, forming a woolly white blanket. The
wolf blinked his eyes free of the snow. The other members of the
wolf pack stood or paced around him, ears twitching, pricking,
listening. The lead female, mate to the wolf, lifted her nose and
sni ed the air. She sti ened.

The other wolves stopped their pacing, lifted their heads, alert,
their attention caught and held. The she-wolf looked over her
shoulder at her mate. The male wolf looked at Feal-Thas.

The winternorn stood unmoving. The snow matted his fur robes,
forming a second cloak. He stared down the tunnels, lit with the
enchanted light, for he did not want his foes bumbling about in the
dark, and he, too, sni ed the air. His ears pricked.

The ground shook as though with an earthquake. The tunnels
creaked and groaned. He could hear above him the screams of the
injured and dying—the sounds of battle. The castle was under
assault. Feal-Thas didn’t give a damn. Let the gods of Light throw
their temper tantrums. Let them melt this place to the ground. It
only needed to hold together long enough for him to destroy the
thieves who were after his dragon orb.

The snow stopped falling as Feal-Thas spoke words of magic,
chanting a powerful spell. He sang words at the beginning of the
chant, but it ended in a howl. The white fur of his robes adhered to
his esh. His nails grew long and curled under, transforming into

claws. His jaw jutted forward, his nose lengthened to become a
snout. His ears shifted, elongated. His teeth were fangs, sharp and
yellow and hungry for blood. He stood on all fours, feeling muscles
ripple across his back, feeling the strength in his legs. He reveled in
his strength.

He was a massive wolf, lord of the wolves. He stood head and
shoulders over the other wolves of the pack, who slunk around him,
staring at him with their red eyes, uncertain, wary, yet prepared to
follow where he would lead.

His senses heightened, Feal-Thas could smell what the other
wolves smelled—the scent of humans borne on the frost-crusted air.
He could hear the rasping of their breath and their rm footfalls, the
clank of a sword, the occasional scrap of conversation, though not
much, for they were saving their breath for breathing.

His trap had worked. They were coming.

Feal-Thas leaped forward on all fours, muscles bunching,
expanding, bunching, expanding. His legs gathered up the ground,
pushing o from it, reached out for more. The wind whistled past
his ears. The snow stung his eyes. He opened his mouth and sucked
in the biting air, and saliva spewed from his lolling tongue. He
grinned in ecstasy, reveling in the run, the hunt, and the prospect of
the kill.

Inside the icy tunnel, Derek stopped to consult the map given to
him by Raggart the Younger. The tunnels in which they stood had
not been here three hundred years ago. The dragon’s lair was on the
map, though it had not been named by the ancestor, since dragons
had not been seen on Krynn for many centuries. The lair was
denoted as a “cave of death” on the map, for the ancestor had seen a
great many bones lying about, including several human skulls.

An abandoned dragon’s lair would be the logical place for Sleet to
use as her lair, or so Derek concluded. He knew the general location
of the lair from the map and he chose a tunnel that led in that

direction. Sunlight lit their way, shining through the ice, turning the
tunnel a shimmering blue-green. They had walked only a short
distance when they came to a place where their tunnel intersected
with two others. Derek gazed, frowning, at his map, not making
much sense of it. Aran suddenly jabbed a nger at the icy wall.

“Look at this!” he exclaimed.

Arrows had been carved into the ice. One pointed straight up.
Another pointed at what appeared to be a crude drawing of a
dragon—a stick gure with wings and a tail. The knights
investigated the other tunnels and found that each had similar
arrows.

“The arrow pointing straight up must indicate that this tunnel
leads up to the castle proper,” guessed Brian.

“And this tunnel leads to the dragon’s lair,” said Derek in
satisfaction.

“I wonder what that X means,” Aran asked, taking a pull from his
ask.

“And who put these here,” said Sturm.

Derek shrugged. “None of that matters,” he said, and led the way
down the tunnel adorned with the gure of the dragon.

Gilthanas and Laurana, accompanied by Flint and Tas, shadowed
the knights, creeping silently down the icy corridors. They halted
when they heard the knights halt and listened to the discussion
about the marked tunnels. When the knights continued on, they
continued after them.

The small group moved silently, keeping their distance, and the
knights did not hear them. Due to the cold, Flint had been forced to
leave his chain mail and plate behind. Though he wore a sturdy
leather vest and was wrapped to his eyeballs in layers of leather and
fur, he maintained he was naked without his armor. The crunching

of his thick boots was the only sound he made, aside from his
grumbling.

Tassleho was so charmed by the idea of being useful that he was
determined to obey Gilthanas’s orders to be quiet, even though that
meant keeping all his interesting observations and questions bottled
up inside him until he began to feel like a keg of ginger beer that
had been sitting in the sun for too long—he was zzing and about to
explode.

The knights would sometimes pause to listen, to try to determine
if any enemy was either in front of them or behind. When the
knights stopped, Laurana and her group stopped.

Flint found this puzzling. “Why don’t we just catch up with them
now?”

“Not until Derek leads me to the dragon orb.” The elf’s voice was
grim. “Then he’ll nd out I’m here—with a vengeance.”

Flint regarded Gilthanas in astonishment and shifted his worried
gaze to Laurana. She gave Flint a pleading look, asking for
understanding. Flint walked on, but he no longer grumbled, a
certain sign he was upset.

The four continued to pursue the knights through the maze of
tunnels. They passed the chamber where Feal-Thas had kept the
dragon orb and its magical monstrous guardian. The knights noticed
the chamber, but went on by, although they could hear Aran stating
he’d found an X on the wall. At this, Gilthanas, who had also
noticed the Xs on the walls, took a moment to investigate. Laurana
went with him, leaving Flint and Tassleho to stand guard outside.

Laurana stared in shuddering horror at the bones, severed limbs
and blood frozen in the snow.

“Look at that pedestal,” said Gilthanas triumphantly, pointing. “It
was made to hold the dragon orb. Look at these runes. They speak
of the orb and how it was created. That explains the carnage,” he
added, looking about at the blood and gore. “We’re not the rst to
come in search of it.”

“You’re saying the orb was here and something or someone was
guarding it, but it’s not here now. Perhaps we’re too late.” Laurana
sounded hopeful.

Gilthanas cast her an angry look and was about to say something
when they heard Flint bellow.

“The blasted kender,” the dwarf stated. “He ran o that way.” He
pointed at a dragon-marked tunnel.

Almost immediately, Tassleho came dashing back. “I think I
found it!” he said in a loud whisper. “The dragon’s lair!”

Gilthanas hastened o , with Tas leading the way, and Flint and
Laurana hurrying behind him. Rounding a corner, the elf jumped
quickly back into the tunnel. He motioned the others to come
forward slowly.

“They’re here,” he mouthed, pointing.

Laurana peered cautiously around the corner into a large empty
chamber. Icicles hung from the ceiling like white stalactites. The
knights stood in the middle of the chamber, looking around.

“Where are the guards?” Brian was asking tensely. “We’ve come
this whole way and not a sign of anyone.”

“If there were soldiers guarding this area, they have probably run
o to join the battle,” said Derek. “Aran, you and Brightblade
remain here, keep watch. Brian, you will come with me—”

“It’s a trap, my lord,” said Sturm, speaking with such calm and
conviction that the knights were shocked into silence.

Derek quickly recovered. “Nonsense,” he said testily. “I think he
may be right, Derek,” said Aran. “I’ve had the feeling all along that
someone was following us.”

Gilthanas sidled farther down the tunnel and pulled Laurana with
him.

“That explains why Feal-Thas sent away all those guarding the
orb, including the dragon,” Brian added tensely. “He wanted to lure
us into doing exactly what we are doing—walking into a trap.”

As if someone was listening, an eerie howl wailed in the darkness,
bestial, mocking laughter that throbbed with enmity and a terrible
threat of blood and pain and dying. The single voice was joined by
countless more voices, their howls and cries reverberating through
the tunnels.

Laurana clutched at her brother, who grabbed hold of her. Flint
whipped out his axe, looking about wildly.

“What was that?” Laurana gasped. Her lips were numb with cold
and fear. “What is that dreadful sound?”

“Wolves!” Gilthanas breathed, not daring to speak aloud. “The
wolf packs of Feal-Thas!”

At a sharp command from Derek, the knights took up positions
back to back, facing outward, their swords drawn. Steel glinted in
the magical light.

The wolves surrounded the knights. White fur against white snow,
red eyes glowing, the wolves circled the knights, padding quietly,
closing in on them. Now the wolves had gone silent, intent on the
kill, on avoiding the sharp steel, on leaping and dragging down and
tearing apart, on gulping the hot blood.

One wolf, larger than the rest, held apart from the others,
remaining outside the circle. This wolf did not join in the attack. He
was watching, a spectator. It seemed to Laurana the wolf had a cruel
smile in his dark eyes.

Elves have long studied the habits and nature of the animals who
share their forest homes. They do not kill their animal neighbors,
not even the predatory beasts, unless forced to do so.

Laurana knew the ways and habits of wolves, and no wolf would
behave like this—sitting on his haunches, watching his fellows.

“Something’s not right. Wait, Flint!” she cried desperately, as the
dwarf would have dashed o to join the battle. “Tas! Do you have
those magical glasses of yours? The ones that see things for what
they are!”

“I might,” said Tas. “I’m never sure what I have, you know, but I
try to keep those with me.”

Laurana watched in agony as the kender, hampered by his fur
gloves, began peering into and rummaging through his numerous
pouches. From their hiding place in the tunnel, Laurana could see,
out of the corner of her eye, the wolves closing the circle. There
must be fty of them or more. And still the one wolf watched the
doomed knights and waited.

Tassleho continued rummaging. Frantic, Laurana grabbed one of
the pouches, upended it, dumping stu on the ground. She was
about to do the same with the others, when Gilthanas pointed. The
glasses sparkled and glittered in the magical light. The elf made a
grab for them, but Tassleho was quicker. He snatched them up
and, giving Gilthanas a reproachful glance, settled them on his nose.

“What am I looking at?” he asked.

“That big wolf.” Laurana knelt beside the kender, bringing herself
to his eye level, and pointed. “The one there, standing apart from
the others.”

“It’s not a wolf. It’s an elf,” said Tassleho , then he added
excitedly, “No wait! It’s an elf and a wolf …”

“Feal-Thas …” Laurana whispered. “You know something of this
wizard, Gil. How do we stop him?”

“An archmage!” Gilthanas gave a bitter laugh. “One of the most
powerful wizards on Krynn—”

He halted. His expression grew thoughtful. “There might be a
way, but you would have to do it, Laurana.”

“Me!” She gasped, appalled.

“You’re the only one who has a chance.” Gilthanas pointed. “You
have the frostreaver.”

She had thrown the weapon to the ground to help Tassleho
search through the pouches. It lay, gleaming crystalline clear, at her
feet. She made no move to pick it up.

Gilthanas gripped her arm, speaking very fast. “Your weapon is
magical. The wizard is a winternorn and the weapon is made of the
same elements that fuel his magic. It is the one weapon that might
kill him.”

“But … he’s a wizard.” Laurana quailed.

“He is not! Not now. Now he’s a wolf. He’s trapped in the wolf’s
body, and he’ll be hampered in his spell casting! He won’t be able to
speak the words of magic or make the gestures or use his spell
components. You must attack now, before he shifts back!”

Laurana stood shivering, staring at the enormous white wolf. The
other wolves continued to circle the knights, wary of the sharp steel,
yet hungry for blood.

“You can do this, Laurana,” said Gilthanas earnestly. “You have
to. Otherwise, there’s no hope for any of us.”

If Tanis were only here … Laurana stopped herself from thinking
that. Tanis wasn’t here. She couldn’t depend on him or anyone else.
This was up to her. The gods had given her the frostreaver. She
didn’t know why. She hadn’t asked for it. She didn’t want it. She
seemed a very poor choice. She wasn’t a knight. She wasn’t a
warrior. Yet even as she thought this and railed against her fate,
ideas on how she could attack the wizard began crystallizing in her
mind. She spoke her thoughts as they came to her, almost without
realizing what she was saying.

“He mustn’t see me coming. If he does, he might start to shift
back to his true form. Gil, nd somewhere you can use your bow.
Keep his attention xed on the battle, and if you can, drive him
away from the rest of the pack.”

Gilthanas looked at her, startled, then gave an abrupt nod. “I’m
sorry I dragged you into this. It’s my fault.” “No, Gil,” she said. “I
made my own choices.” She thought back to the day she had run
away from home to follow after Tanis. That choice had led her to
the knowledge of the gods, to knowledge of herself. She was a far
di erent person from the spoiled little girl she had once been. A far

better person, or so she hoped. She wasn’t sorry, no matter what
happened.

The circle of wolves began closing, moving in on their prey. Flint
stood by her silently, stoutly.

“You can do it, lass,” he said in gru assurance, then he added
wistfully, “I wish I had time to teach you the proper way to wield
that axe!”

She grinned at him. “I don’t think it’s going to make much
di erence.”

Gilthanas slipped to the tunnel opening, seeking a good location
from which to use his bow. Laurana and Flint hurried down the
tunnel’s slight incline and ventured out into the open. Feal-Thas did
not hear them or see them, nor did the wolves. They were focused
on the prey at hand, focused on the kill.

Tassleho had been having fun ipping his glasses up and down,
seeing an elf one moment and a wolf the next. When this grew
boring, he took o the glasses, looked about, and saw that he was
alone.

Gilthanas had taken up a position at the end of the tunnel. He had
drawn his bow and was nocking an arrow. Laurana, her frostreaver
in her hands, was slipping up behind the pack of wolves. Flint was
behind her, keeping one eye on the wolves and the other on
Laurana.

“Try to hit his back, lass,” Flint told her. “Aim for the biggest part
of him, and put your own back into it!”

Tas hurriedly thrust the glasses into a pocket and reached into his
belt. There was Rabbitslayer, just where it always was, whether he
had thought to bring it or not.

“Maybe after this I’ll rename you Wolf-Killer,” he promised the
knife.

Tas started after his friends. He hadn’t been paying attention to
Laurana’s orders to keep quiet, and he was about to raise his voice
in a gleeful taunt when the words stuck in his throat.

The knights closed ranks, facing, as best they could, the coming
onslaught. The wolves padded toward them, their eyes glittering red
in the eerie light. Then snow began to fall, magical snow, drifting
down out of the air. The light dimmed, hampering their ability to
see.

“You damn fool!” Aran swore savagely at Derek, his voice rising
in fury with each word. “You bloody, stupid, arrogant fool! What do
you say now? What bloody words of wisdom are you going to spout
at us before we all die?”

“Aran,” said Brian softly, his mouth so dry he could barely speak,
“you’re not helping …”

Sturm was to Brian’s left. Sturm stood tall and steadfast, his sword
point unwavering, his gaze xed on the wolves. He was talking, but
only to himself, the words low and barely audible. Brian realized
Sturm was praying, asking for Paladine to aid them, commending
their souls to the god.

Brian wished in sudden agony that he believed in a god—any
god! That he was not staring into a hideous, eternally silent,
eternally empty void. That the pain and the terror held some
meaning, that his life held some meaning. That his death would
have some value. That he had not found love at last only to lose it in
an icy cave on some pointless venture. A bitter taste ooded his
mouth. The gods might have returned, but too late for him.

“Brightblade, be silent,” said Derek, his voice rasping. “All of you,
silence.”

He was the cool, calm commander, the leader in charge of the
situation, a courageous example, an inspiration to his men as
described in the Measure. If he had doubts, he wasn’t giving in to
them. He believed in something, Brian thought. Derek believed in
Derek, and he couldn’t understand why they didn’t believe in him as
well. He expects us to die believing in him, Brian suddenly realized.
That struck him as funny, and he gave a crackle of bitter laughter
that brought another sharp rebuke from Derek.

“Pay attention!”

“To what?” Aran raved. “To the fact that we’re going to die
horribly, torn apart by wild beasts, our bones hauled o to be
gnawed in some den—”

“Shut up!” Derek shouted furiously. “All of you, shut up!’

According to the Measure, the leader never shouted, never lost his
calm demeanor, never wavered or doubted, never showed fear …

Snow akes fell into Brian’s eyelashes. He blinked them away
rapidly, keeping his gaze xed on the wolves. As if acting on some
unheard signal, the wolves suddenly came at them in a rush.

Sturm gave a great roar of de ance and swung his sword in a
slashing arc. A huge white wolf fell at his feet, blood welling from a
wound in its neck.

Another wolf came bounding at Brian, snarling, fangs glistening.
It suddenly sailed sideways, its body skidding on the ice. Brian saw,
as it slid past him, an arrow sticking out of its ribs. A second arrow
took another wolf in midair, felling it. Brian had no time to wonder
or to look around. An enormous wolf galloped over the snow,
charging at him. Brian tried to hit it with the blade of his sword, but
the wolf, launching itself into the air, leaped on top of him. Huge
paws thudded into his chest. The wolf’s weight bore Brian to the
ground. His sword ew out of his gloved hands and went spinning
away over the ice.

The wolf’s breath was hot on his face, smelling of rotting meat.
Yellow teeth slashed his esh. Saliva, now red with blood—his
blood—splashed over him. The wolf had him pinned. He pummeled
it with his hands, to no avail. The wolf sank its fangs into Brian’s
neck, and he screamed. He knew he screamed, but, horribly, there
was no sound except gurgling. The wolf savaged his neck, ready to
rip out his throat. Then it gave a hideous yelp and tumbled or was
kicked o him. Brian looked up to see Sturm yank his sword out of
the wolf’s ank.

Sturm bent over him. Brian could barely see him in the falling
snow.

Sturm gripped Brian’s hand, held it fast, even as he stabbed and
slashed with his sword, fending o more wolves.

“I’ll get up in a minute,” Brian meant to tell him. “I’ll help you
ght. I just have to … catch my breath …”

Brian held onto Sturm’s hand and tried to breathe, but no breath
would come.

He held Sturm’s hand and the snow fell and the akes were cold
upon his lips and … he let go …

Laurana saw Brian fall. She saw Sturm bending over him, still
ghting, trying to keep the wolves from attacking him. A wolf
leaped on Sturm’s shoulders. With an enormous e ort, he rose up,
heaving the beast o him. The wolf landed on its back. Sturm drove
his sword into its belly, and the beast yelped and snapped in pain,
feet ailing in the air.

Aran fought expertly. His sword was slippery-wet with blood, and
bodies lay about his feet. The wolves fell back, eyeing him, then
several ganged up to bring him down. One dashed in behind him,
digging its sharp fangs through his leather boot, sinking deep into
his ankle, severing the tendon. Aran stumbled and the wolves leapt
on him, snarling and growling, ripping and tearing. Aran cried out,
shouting for help. Sturm could do nothing, could not come to his
aid. A wolf had hold of the sleeve of his sword arm and was trying
to drag him o -balance. Sturm beat at it with his st, trying to force
the jaws loose.

Laurana heard Aran’s cries and turned to look. “Flint, go help
him!” she shouted.

Flint looked at her, frowning, doubtful, not wanting to leave her.

“Go!” she said urgently.

Flint cast her an agonized glance, then ran to Aran’s aid. The
dwarf descended on the attacking wolves, coming at them from
behind. Flint roared and hacked, and his axe was soon red with

gore. The wolves, maddened with the smell of fresh blood, paid him
little heed. They continued their assault on Aran, who had ceased to
struggle. One wolf died with its teeth still clamped in Aran’s esh.

Flint dragged the carcass o Aran, then stood over the knight’s
body, fending o the wolves.

“Reorx aid me!” Flint cried, swinging his axe and the steel,
covered with blood, ared red in the tunnel light. The wolves did
not like the light and kept clear, but they continued to eye him.

“Aran?” Derek cried, half-turning. But he was ghting his own
battle and could not see what had happened.

Flint glanced down at Aran, buried beneath wolf carcasses, but he
dared not take his attention from the wolves. “Tas,” Flint yelled. “I
need you! Over here! See to Aran,” he ordered as Tas came dashing
up.

Tassleho frantically shoved and kicked aside the bloody bodies
until he found Aran. The knight’s eyes were wide open and
unblinking as the snow akes fell into them. Half his face had been
torn o . Blood pooled and froze on the ice beneath him.

“Oh, Flint!” Tas cried, choking in dismay.

Flint glanced over his shoulder.

“Reorx walk with him,” he said gru y.

Tas yelled a warning, and Flint turned, swinging his axe as more
wolves descended on them.

Sturm put his back to Derek’s, to keep the wolves from taking
them down from behind as they had Aran. The two men stood in a
circle of bodies. Some of the wolves, wounded, whimpered and tried
futilely to stand. Others lay still. The ice was red with gore. The
knights’ swords were slippery with blood that ran down the blade
and gummed up the hilt. They were sweating beneath the fur coats.
Their breath came fast and frosted their mustaches and eyebrows.
The wolves watched, waiting for an opening. Every so often, an
arrow would y through the darkness and take down another, but

by now Gilthanas was running low on arrows, and he had to make
every shot tell.

“Aran?” Derek asked harshly, gasping for breath.

“Dead,” said Sturm, breathing hard.

That was all. Derek did not ask about Brian. Derek knew the
answer. At one point, he had almost fallen over his friend’s body.
The wolves closed in again.

Flint was on the defensive, battling for his life. He no longer
roared; he had to save his breath. A wolf leaped at him. He swung
his axe and missed, and the beast was on him, bowling him over.
Tassleho jumped on the wolf’s back. Tas had gone into a sort of
kender fury, screaming taunts that had no e ect, for the wolves
couldn’t possibly understand or care. Riding the beast, Tas stabbed
the wolf in the neck, stabbed it again and again and again with all
the strength in his small arm until it toppled over and lay dead.

Tassleho stood over the wolf, watching it grimly, ready to kill it
all over if it should somehow spring back to life. When it moved, he
gave a savage cry and started to strike again and nearly stabbed
Flint, who was trying to crawl out from underneath the twitching
body.

Laurana could see the chaos out of the corner of her eye. Using
the wizard’s own magical snow as cover, Laurana circled around
Feal-Thas to come at him from behind. Gilthanas red at Feal-Thas,
and the large wolf that was no wolf was driven away from the rest
of the pack by Gilthanas’s arrows. Forced to remain on the fringes of
the assault, Feal-Thas paced back and forth, watching the attack, his
tongue lolling, fangs dripping as though he tasted the blood. He did
not see Laurana until she was almost upon him, coming at him from
behind. He did not hear her over the wolves’ howling and snarling.

Laurana saw Brian’s crumpled body lying on the bloody ice. She
had been afraid, but now anger subsumed her fear. She lifted the
frostreaver, and remembering Flint’s hastily imparted instructions,
she started to swing, to strike the wolf-elf in the back, sever the
spine …

Feal-Thas sensed her. He turned his wolf’s head and gazed at her,
gazed deep into her heart. His eyes pinned her as the wolf had
pinned Brian. She halted in mid-stride. The frostreaver hung in the
air, poised, ready to strike a killing blow. But Laurana’s will seeped
out of her. Feal-Thas stared at her, yellow eyes probing deep inside
her, his thieving hand ri ing her heart’s secrets, sifting and sorting,
keeping what was valuable, tossing out the rest.

Laurana realized, horror-stricken, that Gilthanas had been wrong.
The archmage could still work his magic from inside a wolf’s body.
She was in the grip of enchantment, and she could do nothing
except utter helplessly like a butter y on a pin.

The wolf growled, and she heard words in that bestial snarl.

“I have seen you before!”

“No!” Laurana whispered, quaking.

“Oh, yes. I saw you in Kitiara’s heart. I see her in your heart, and I
see the half-elf in both. What fun is this?”

Laurana wanted to ee. She wanted to kill him. She wanted to
sink to her knees and bury her face in her hands. But she couldn’t
do anything. The wolf trotted closer and she was paralyzed, unable
to break free of the fell gaze.

“Kitiara wants Tanis,” said Feal-Thas, “and she means to have
him. If she succeeds, Lauralanthalasa, he will be lost to you forever.
I am the only person powerful enough to stop her. Kill me, and you
give Tanis to your rival.”

Laurana heard the din of shouts mingled with the howling of the
wolves. She glanced over her shoulder, saw Brian with his throat
torn, Aran dead, Flint crawling out from under the bodies and
Tassleho ghting as tears ran down his cheeks, forming trails in
the blood.

Feal-Thas knew in that moment he’d lost her. He saw his danger.
First Kitiara had made a fool of him. She’d brought disaster on him,
and now this elf woman was here to nish him o . He saw the two
of them, Kitiara and Laurana standing together, laughing at him.

Rage boiled inside Feal-Thas. If he had been in his body, he would
have destroyed this feeble woman with a word and a gesture. He
would have to settle for tearing her apart, feasting on her esh,
drinking her blood. And someday, he would do the same to Kitiara.

Laurana felt the wizard’s grip release her. She saw the fury in the
yellow eyes. She saw the attack coming. She gripped the frostreaver
tightly, putting all her strength into it. Laurana forgot about Tanis,
forgot about Kitiara. She gave herself and her past and her future
into the hands of the gods. She took hold of her own destiny.

Fangs snapping, the wolf leaped at her.

“So be it,” Laurana said calmly, and she swung the frostreaver at
the wolf’s throat.

The magical blade blessed by Habakkuk sliced the winternorn’s
magic and cut deep into his neck. Blood spurted. Feal-Thas howled.
The white wolf slumped to the ice, jaws open, tongue lolling, blood
and saliva dribbling from its mouth. The yellow hate- lled eyes
stared at her. The wolf’s anks heaved, feet scrabbled and clawed
the ice that was red with blood pouring from the fatal wound.

Faint words, dark and piercing as fangs, sank into her.

“Love was my curse! Love will be your curse and hers!”

The hatred and the life faded out of the wolf’s yellow eyes, and in
the moment of his death the enchantment that had transformed
Feal-Thas into the wolf snapped. One moment Laurana was staring
at the corpse of a wolf. She brushed her eyes to clear them of snow,
and when she looked again, the body of the elf lay on his back in a
vast pool of blood. His head was nearly severed from his neck.

Laurana gasped and shuddered and turned away. She was sick
with shock and horror. She started shaking, and she couldn’t stop.
She had some dim realization that she was still in danger—the wolf
pack might turn on her, attack her. She looked up to see one wolf
running toward her, and she struggled to lift the frostreaver, but it
seemed suddenly immensely heavy. Gasping for breath that
wouldn’t seem to come, she braced herself.